Under the Mistletoe
by JamesLuver
Summary: The space between Robert and Cora widens. Mary and Matthew try to cope with their true desires. Anna is left waiting for the verdict which will decide her husband's fate—and her own. Will the Christmas period prove to be a good one for anyone at Downton Abbey this year?
1. The Rift

**A/N:** Hello there, fellow _Downton Abbey_ fans! :) I've loved the show ever since it started airing here in the UK, but until now I've been unable to think of anything that might be suitable for a fanfic. Of course, this may have gone horribly wrong, ensuring that it's my first and last post here. xD

This takes place before the Christmas Special, obviously, and is probably already AU. Oh well. There are two more chapters to accompany this, and I hope to get them both up before the special airs on Christmas Day. :)

**Disclaimer:** If I owned _Downton Abbey_, practically everything which annoyed fans about series two wouldn't have happened. :P

* * *

><p><em><span>Under the Mistletoe<span>_

_1. The Rift_

Cora breaks away from the party with a murmured excuse, smiling politely at those who look her way. She waves away the drink that Carson offers her as she passes and heads towards the doorway where she can see her husband lingering, detached from the rest of the celebrations.

"Robert?" she asks him upon her approach, "what's the matter?"

He starts as though he'd been a great distance away, turning to flash her a smile that strains the corners of his mouth. "Nothing, my dear."

She's been married to him long enough to know when he is not being honest with her, and her instinct is confirmed when he turns away again to watch the festivities with a pensive frown darkening his features. She sighs despondently to herself, slipping in front of him so that he has to take notice of her.

"Robert, please tell me what's wrong." She doesn't care that she sounds pushy. In another life, in another world, he'd tease her for going all American on him once again, but this time she gets no response.

She should be used to it by now. The Great War has left everyone with scars; no one has escaped untouched. Just because the scars she bears are not necessarily visible does not mean that she hasn't been wounded too. The widening gap that has been drawing the two of them further apart, ripping through their comfortable relationship – the gap that she had tentatively started to believe was bridging itself – was growing horrifically larger by the day, threatening to tear through the familiarity for good.

She'd thought that after the Spanish flu epidemic that all would be well once more. After she'd recovered her senses enough, she'd been all too aware of the painful fact that only O'Brien had nursed her through her illness, but when Robert had taken her hand she'd assumed everything would slowly return to how it had been before August 1914. And, for a time, it had. Robert had been much more affectionate towards her, treating her like a china doll which could crack at any moment. She'd chastised him gently for being too worrisome, but inside she'd been thrilled that he was lavishing her with his attentions. They'd even made love a few times in the darkness, with her cries muffled against his shoulder and his touch soft and reverent like it had been in the second year of their marriage, an act which had been more frequent in those few months of almost-normalcy than it had during the entirety of the war. Yes, for a while, it had seemed like everything was falling back into place, into the easiness that they had enjoyed prior to the war.

But it had been too good to last, and slowly but surely Robert's moods have darkened until he is as distant with her as he'd been during those painful four years. The lovemaking has petered out completely. Sometimes they even sleep apart,

_(Robert's decision, always Robert's decision)_

something unheard of before the war. There is clearly something preying on his mind, but he won't share his problem with her. It is as though he is fighting (and here Cora pauses from the sheer ridiculousness of her train of thought) some inner demon that only he can know about, something that had not been picking at his person like a vulgar vulture before the war.

Before the war. After the war. How she hates those words, those neat little blocks that her life can be sorted into.

She shakes her head then, before her thoughts can derail her even further. It is apparent that Robert is not going to answer her question, so instead of pursuing the matter further, she allows her gaze to wander past her husband's.

She freezes. They are standing directly underneath a sprig of mistletoe, hung there to add some light-hearted humour to the festivities – Carson's face had been a picture when he'd realised that he was standing underneath it with Mrs. Hughes. But, suddenly, it doesn't seem as funny anymore.

Robert notices the shift in her scrutiny and turns around to follow it. He looks even grimmer.

"Oh," he mutters, and she is left wondering just exactly when his love for her

_(died, died like she almost did)_

began to wane.

"It _is_ tradition, darling," she says, feeling both foolish and awkward. It's not the fact that they're with the servants – they have been affectionate in front of them before and, in any case, no one is paying them the slightest bit of attention, too focused on the delights of the ball. It isn't even that the Dowager Countess' keen eyes are seeking the pair out from across the room – Robert has rarely regarded his mother on the matter of his wife since the second year of their marriage. No, _he _is making her feel foolish and awkward. The weary look on his face as he realises what the mistletoe means is like a fresh battle wound to her heart.

"It'll only take a moment," she tries to tease him lamely, stepping closer to him.

"I suppose," he sighs, and leans in to her.

She closes her eyes in anticipation of his mouth gently brushing against hers. The contact never comes.

Instead he tilts his head and presses his lips against her cheek. It is so fleeting that she barely realises what has happened until it is over. Snapping her eyes open, she finds him already moving away from her.

Before the war, he would never have kissed her cheek. In front of the people who did not (and could not) judge him, he would have allowed himself to peck her chastely, perhaps even caressing her arm for good measure. Now…

Now even _that_ has changed, along with everything else.

Cora doesn't bother calling after him. There is no point. She watches him walk over to Carson and strike up a conversation with him.

Anything to be away from her.

Tears – something that she hasn't felt for a long time – prick the back of her eyes, and she blinks them away furiously. It will not do to allow her emotions to take on a life of their own. She cannot allow her mother-in-law to tut that she is just too _American_, can't bear the thought of the servants seeing her weak and vulnerable.

And Robert. She is more terrified of his reaction than anything else. She does not want to see the exasperation – or worse, indifference! – in his eyes if he knew that the tears that are threatening to fall are down to him.

So she takes a deep breath to steady her nerves, giving herself a moment to compose herself. Holding her head high, she plasters a smile back onto her face and begins to mingle with the members of staff again.

Tonight, when this is over, she will remove her mask and allow herself to mourn the loving relationship she used to share with her husband.

Now, however, she has to keep up the appearance of a perfect family life.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Perhaps a little too angsty? Although I'd love for Cora and Robert to be back to their series one ways, I'd also love to see the two of them getting closer once again. Robert should be carrying a lot of guilt over the Jane thing and for some reason I can see it driving them further apart before it brings them together again as Robert battles against this guilt. Hopefully this was okay, in any case. I've got a fluffy Robert/Cora idea in my head, so if this is received well I'll go ahead and write and post it. :)

Next chapter will focus on Mary/Matthew. I'm hoping to post it on the twentieth. Please review to let me know what you think of this. :)


	2. So Close

**A/N:** I had problems with this chapter. Though I of course love Mary/Matthew, I don't think I'm particularly good at getting the characters down on paper. I don't think the vodkas that accompanied this chapter helped much, either.

**DeweyNumbers** - I'm happy that you liked the way that you portrayed the characters and stuff. :) Thanks for the review!

**robyn** - Thanks for reviewing! A 'fic about fluffy Robert/Cora is in progress but will take a while to finish, heh.

**atlatnisbabe34** - Ditto the above comment. And thanks!

* * *

><p><em><span>2. So Close<span>_

Mary watches the festivities from afar, smiling slightly as they unfold in front of her. She has been asked to dance several times by members of the household both upstairs and downstairs and only now has she found the strength to break free. Carson, bless the man, had asked her for the first dance and she'd graciously accepted, for she was very fond of him. Sir Richard had been next in line to quickly sweep her away as soon as he could, and she'd obliged grudgingly, for although he is her fiancé (how she hates that word!) she does not take kindly to being treated a though she is simply his property.

Matthew had asked for the third dance. Feeling Carlisle's eyes boring holes into the back of her skull, she'd declined. She tries to tell herself that it was for the best, that the two of them dancing around each other has only ever led to dangerous situations in the past.

She now sits at one of the little tables that have been dragged into the room, watching as the others enjoy themselves. Matthew is currently leading Granny around the room – though it seems as though Granny is not letting him have an easy time as she chides him for this and that. Edith is at the other side of the room conversing with Carlisle, who has miraculously left her alone long enough to fetch another drink. Most of the servants are in the middle of the floor; Carson and Mrs. Hughes are dancing a rather impressive waltz, the butler looking as prim as ever whilst the housekeeper wears an amused smile. Mama and Papa are by the doorway, both looking as though a second Great War is about to break out.

Suddenly, inexplicably, she feels as though she has to get out. No one notices as she slips out of the room and makes her way down the hall away from the celebrations.

It seems unnatural that she and Matthew should be in such close quarters and yet unable to even speak to each other politely. Whenever the two of them even get close to one another, Carlisle is always there, hovering around like a jealous dog. It is tiresome and yet she knows that to argue with him will achieve nothing. He is too sure of himself, arrogantly so, and because of this he is unable to even acknowledge that she might have thoughts and opinions of her own.

But, no matter how much she might despise the situation, she is chained to him. For better, for worse. He knows too much about her to ever let her go free. Despite how she feels now, she knows that she could never have allowed the scandalous story of her and Pamuk to get out. It would ruin her entire family. It would drag down her mother and her grandmother, force Anna and Bates into the fray. Everyone would be ruined because of her. She cannot allow that to happen.

And that isn't even bringing Matthew into the matter. Yes, she'd considered telling him the awful truth when he'd proposed to her, but that doesn't mean that she wants him to know everything now. Too much has passed between them – the baby, the war, Lavinia – but she still relishes the fact that they can be friends. God knows she needs a friend in all of this.

"Mary?"

The voice behind her makes her jump. Clasping a hand in front of her heart, she turns to find the person that she has just been thinking about is standing right in front of her. Her heart leaves her chest to pound in her throat. Of course he had noticed her disappearance. Of course.

He looks quite awkward standing there, as though he isn't sure if he should have followed her or not. At once a feeling of nostalgia rushes over her, the image of the first time that he ever entered Downton still fresh in her mind. How she longs for those old days, when everything was much simpler than the matters of today.

"Matthew," she replies evenly, her inner turmoil hidden behind a cool mask.

She doesn't say anything else, leaving him to do the chasing as he is prone to do.

And he does.

"Was the ball not to your liking?" he asks her, coming closer. She tenses.

"Oh, no, the servants' ball has always been enjoyable," she answers. "Only this year I suppose it's a bit different. Things have changed so much in the last year. It feels strange."

"I can agree with that," he nods, coming to a rest by her side. Her gloved fingers twist together in an effort to restrain herself from reaching out to touch him.

"So that's why I had to get away," she supplies, even though he hasn't asked, hasn't judged her. "Just to think, even if it is only for a moment."  
>Again, he nods. Nothing more. It appears as though he is waiting for her to unburden herself on him, like she has done in the past.<p>

Today, she can't. She just can't. Whenever they speak to one another, there is something between them, an invisible barrier blocking the path to their hearts. She knows what it is. Lavinia. Her death still weighs heavily on Matthew's mind. He still blames himself

_(and you)_

for what transpired between them mere days before her death. She can tell there is a war waging within him, a turmoil behind his eyes that had not been present before the war, before the way she shot him down. She knows what the internal war is about. She knows him well enough by now. She knows that he is wrestling with his feelings for her (oh, those blasted, _wonderful_ feelings) and his absolute guilt that his sweet Lavinia had witnessed him showing his affection to her and subsequently died of a broken heart.

Clearly no side is about to win out – whenever he reaches out to her or she to him, something always happens to drag him away again – but that doesn't matter. Not now. She will marry Sir Richard, and there is nothing that Matthew can do or say to change that.

Until he changes everything with his wandering eyes.

"Mistletoe," he breathes quietly, and suddenly there isn't enough air in the room.

_Oh God, please…_

She isn't' sure if she means _please yes_ or _please no_.

A non-committal noise escapes her throat as she wrenches her gaze away from his to stare determinedly at anything but his wide blue eyes. For his part, Matthew appears to be just as frozen.

But then he speaks again, threatening to bring the world crashing down around her.

"It _is_ tradition," he murmurs, and his breath rippling against her face has her trembling.

"I've never been one for tradition myself," she muses, giving him – them – one last chance to back away and leave this conversation as nothing more than a unenviable dream.

One last chance that is, inevitably, not taken.

"I think you're more of a traditionalist than you think you are," he breathes, and his hand reaches out to gently cradle her cheek in his palm. She tries to turn away, but she can't. Not from him.

"Please, Matthew –" she manages before his lips mesh gently against her own and she is lost, lost in the smell of him, in the feel of his hand searing her face and his mouth moving gently over hers. She melts beneath him, her hands slowly rising to grasp at his forearms. Her head swims as though she's had too much to drink. Everything about this is perfect; it doesn't matter that Matthew has been mourning Lavinia, it doesn't matter that she is destined to spend an unhappy life with Carlisle, all that matters is –

There is the sound of a door being opened just up the corridor. The two of them leap apart as though they have been cauterised just as the hurried footsteps manifest themselves into the lean, formidable form of Mary's fiancé. He eyes each of them suspiciously in turn, and Mary hopes that he cannot read the story of what has transpired here in her eyes and her face and her mouth. He doesn't say anything, but she can't shake off the feeling that somehow he _does_ know; it's in the way that his mouth twists into a sour line and lying low in the harsh, "Mary, let's go," that rumbles from his throat.

For a moment, no one moves. Mary can feel the heat of Matthew's body – so close and still so far – silently willing her to stay with him, to make a stand, to cast away the overwhelming force of Carlisle.

Instead, she turns and walks away from him, straight back to her fiancé.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Well, whatever you thought of it, please leave it in a review. :) The final chapter, consisting of Anna/Bates, will be posted on Christmas Day just before the Special airs.


	3. The Outcome

**A/N:** And finally, the Anna/Bates chapter. I'm not sure what to make of this (it's probably better than my Mary/Matthew attempt but still moves a bit too quickly) so I'll just leave it to you guys to make a judgement.

* * *

><p><em><span>3. The Outcome<span>_

She tries to smile, tries to put on a cheerful front. It's all for him. She'd promised him that she would keep in high spirits despite their dire predicament, despite the fact that her entire world hangs in the balance of one tiny phrase.

But how can she? How can she smile, laugh, dance, when her husband could be dead in a few days' time?

The annual servants' ball has always been a joyous occasion, and back when they'd married, she'd secretly spent that blissful weekend looking forward to sharing a dance with her husband at Christmas. Or perhaps not a dance. But certainly a sway on the outskirts of the room. She and Mr. Bates had always passed the time at the servants' ball by sitting at one of the tables simply talking about nothing and everything; she'd sometimes be asked to dance and she would feel his eyes on her on her, his face smiling as he watched her having fun.

How quickly that dream had fallen apart.

She's tried her best today. She's shared a dance with Carson, whose sympathetic expression had almost broken her heart as he'd led her around the floor. She's had a few drinks and Lady Mary has offered her a few comforting words. Now, however, she has escaped back out of the room to the servants' quarters on the pretence of retiring for the night. Now she sits at the table in the servants' hall all alone, with her head in her hands and her shoulders sagging, the weight of the world pressing down on top of her. All pretences of high spirits disappear in the solitude of the room.

She can't go on. Not like this. If the verdict comes back and is not the outcome that she so desperately desires, she does not know what she'll do. She'd firmly stated that coming to terms with the worst was something that she would deal with after the event happened, but she cannot stop herself from dwelling on it. The others try and help her, but they don't understand, not really; after all, it is not _their_ loved one who is facing the death penalty. She is grateful to them, of course, but sometimes she'd prefer to be left alone with her thoughts and feelings.

Right now she appreciates the solitude. With a candle flickering on the table top in front of her, she watches the shadows dancing on the walls and forces herself to believe that justice will win out in the end. John _will_ be cleared of all charges. John _will_ come back to her. He'll be able to wrap his arms around her and hold her close without any consequences. Everyone in the household is behind the two of them, from Lord Grantham to Mrs. Patmore. Even Thomas and O'Brien haven't been showing their usual contempt. Evidently wishing a man dead is too much even for them.

Anna thinks back to their wedding day, to that one blissful weekend they'd managed to spend together happily as man and wife. How far away that seems now. She tries to conjure up the memory of sleeping by his side on their wedding night, but the memory has faded, almost as though it is dead and gone. She tries not to think of the cruel irony of this, instead focusing on the future, of the next time that they can be together intimately. That day has to come. It _has_ to.

She goes to see him every half day she gets off. There is something different about him now, a hollowness about his eyes that had not been present before all of this. His face has thinned with the pressure and worry and his skin is cold to the touch, icy like a deathly clamour. Again, she shudders and casts that thought aside.

They always try to keep in high spirits during her visits, sitting with their clasped hands in the middle of the table, discussing anything and everything but the trial and the future. She can't bear to think about the after and he, respecting that, says nothing, preferring to sit listening to the ins and outs of life in Downton because it takes their minds off of everything else. By the end of the sessions she always has a conflicting ache in her chest – a euphoric happiness that she is able to spend time with her husband, no matter how snatched the moments are, and a terrible sense of loss that he can't come home with her.

Suddenly, the echo of a half-step resounds in the hall. Anna smiles to herself, even as the tears well up in her eyes. She often hears the phantom step of Mr. Bates in the hallways when she is thinking about him. Before Vera, before everything had begun to go wrong for them, she'd often heard him clattering about before she saw him, and it would bring a smile to her face knowing that she would be seeing him at any moment. She'd fallen for him fast – startlingly fast – and the intensity of her feelings for him had scared her at first. But John was so kind, with his quick wit and his twinkling eyes and his quiet smile that she just couldn't try and force herself back to the platonic feelings of friendship. She'd been uncertain about his feelings for her – he was a closed book to her most of the time – but she'd known that he wouldn't laugh or sneer at her if she revealed her feelings for him.

And he hadn't.

The half-step again. And then again. And again. And again.

And then, quite suddenly, he is there in front of her. She blinks, sure that it is just her tired eyes deceiving her, expecting to see the image wavering as soon as she blinks; but no. He is still there, solid and real-looking, and she can't stop his name from falling from her lips like a star from the heavens above.

"John?"

He shifts from one foot to the other before starting towards her with the lurching gait that she is so accustomed to now, and her heart staggers in her chest. Surely she can't be imagining this?

He speaks then, his voice low and soft and exactly as it has always been. "Anna."

It is only her name. But it is enough to break through the cloud of absurdity which is currently blanketing her entire world. His voice sounds so alive. He cannot be an apparition.

She blinks rapidly, bringing a hand up to rub at her eyes. For a moment she allows herself to take in the fact that he is standing there and is most decidedly not in prison before she is out of her chair and launching herself towards him with the ferocity of a protective lioness. He stumbles backwards a few paces, his cane clattering out of his hands as her weight presses against him. Together they hit the doorframe that he has just left.

Anna breathes in the scent of her husband, clinging heavily to his shoulders as he moves his arms to wrap them protectively around her waist. She pushes her nose into the underside of his throat, nuzzling affectionately against his skin as tears of unadulterated joy pool in the corners of her eyes. She feels his lips ghost her temple and clings to him even more fiercely. Finally she eases back enough to search his eyes in confusion.

"What…How come you're here?" she stammers, unwilling to let him go lest he disappears again and he smiles, his eyes crinkling with utter joy.

"There was evidence, Anna, and…oh, Anna, I'm a free man."

_I'm a free man._

The words take a moment to register, but she cannot stop the overjoyed sob from escaping throat as they do.

"Free…but how, John? How?"

He brushes the falling tears away with the back of his fingers, and the feel of his touch sends shivers down her spine. "It doesn't matter, Anna. Not now. Not right at this moment."

"But –"

He presses his finger against her lips. "We'll talk later. Right now…right now I just want to forget about it. Just for a moment. All right?"

She nods before her gaze drifts up passed her husband's face. A broad smile breaks out on her face as she realises just what they are standing beneath.

"Mistletoe," she breathes.

John follows her gaze, his own smile wide as he gazes at the sight.

"Well, Mrs. Bates," he said. "It _is_ tradition to kiss under the mistletoe."

"Somehow I think we can do better than that," she replies, and pulls him out of the doorway to press her lips against his own.

Later there will be time to get answers to the million questions that she has. The news will have to be broken to the rest of the household. Celebrations will be held in elation of the news.

But, for now, she has her husband to herself. And, for now, that is all that matters.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**...Basically, I was too lazy to try and figure out a way for Bates to be let off without Anna or anyone else knowing. :P I'm sure he'll divulge it to Anna later on. ;) Seriously, though, if Bates doesn't get off tonight I will die inside. We need Anna/Bates fluff in series three!

On another note, I've a few_ Downton Abbey_ 'fics which I would like to try out. I don't know when they'll be up or even started, but you can track their progress on my profile if you're interested. :)

Merry Christmas, everyone! Hopefully the episode tonight will make everything even more awesome.


End file.
